From the Heart
by lokiyan
Summary: Blair left Manhattan. Good riddance, au revoir, arrivederci. All that jazz. But these dreams and the voices. She had a feeling there was something she wasn't quite remembering and she can't help but pick at it like a scab. CB
1. You've got me in your spell

A/N: I'm a little bitch. I know, I have other things to work on, but... *sigh* This wasn't going to come about. And then it was gonna be another couple, but here it is. It won't be as long as my other ones though, I swear... Maybe

From the Heart

Chapter 1

_Bewitched, bewitched. You've got me in your spell._

Paris was nice. Really nice. The weather was fantastic. The buildings were beautiful. Her two dads, as much as they seemed like sit-com material, were supportive and nurturing. The vineyard by her house was fragrant and romantic. She managed her mother's atelier like a pro (it's like ordering around 20 Dorota's all day - _fantastic!_). The whole city embraced Blair Waldorf's old money ideals.

Best of all, there was no Gossip Girl.

Actually, scratch that.

Best of all, there were _men_. A whole city full of them. Just walking down the street were fashionable, good-looking strangers whom she'd _love_ to get to know better. None of them knew her past, her reputation. None of them slept with her best friend. Well, maybe a few, but those things happened. Besides, things were good between them now so she could deal with a guy who carrying a straggling strand of Serena-one-night-standicus - as long as he wasn't infected anymore.

Anyway, she could forgive that, because there was one crucial point: none of them were Chuck Bass.

Nope. No precocious, pompous, selfish, douche-y, moneybags McGee in sight. Well, that's not true either, but none of them were _him_. That's the important part.

Because in truth, who needed him? Maybe if she were still in Manhattan, but now the butterfly had busted out of the chucking cocoon. She was beyond his joint-rolling fingers, perched upon the top of high end fashion, about to launch her own Waldorf Mademoiselle line. At the shows and functions she organized, she had Luc on her arm one night and Jean on her arm the next.

Of course, it wasn't all play and glamour. She had to admit that her mother always made it look a lot easier when she jet-set around the world, coming up with this concept or dealing with that model, going over the accessories and shoes and dealing with completely incompetent imbeciles (really, it's like no matter how many times she kicked them with her Jimmy Choos while they're down, they never learn!). There were late nights when she would bring her work home and, in a plain tee and sweatpants with her hair clipped back haphazardly, she wouldn't even let Roman into her room. She simply instructed him to leave the homemade strawberry crepes at the door.

But still, for only having broken free of New York, New York only a few months, she was doing pretty well for herself. If only they could see her now...

Chuck Bass and Yale would eat their hearts out.

...

Well, she supposed there _was_ a little something something that could be the plump maraschino cherry on top of her Belgian chocolate sundae.

And yes, she meant _that_ little something something. Except considering how long it had been, it really wasn't that little.

When she laid back in bed after a long day to a cold bed, it was positively the Hulk-sized monster in the room. In the dark silence, when her eyes would stare into a blackness that blended into her pupils, every thought seeped into her skull until it felt like it would burst. The fabrics she would have to order for the samples to be finished on time, the four pounds she put on in the past two weeks, the fact that in a month, the people she grew up with, many of whom were absolutely _beneath_ her, were _graduating_ and she was here, waiting to take her exams so she would have _something _to show for her near impeccable record.

She thought about the men who bought her drinks, slipped her numbers, recited Baudelaire and Donne to her at cafes and how there was always something, even down to the most minute detail like a laugh line by the jaw, that would remind her of him. The numerous times she had gone out with someone and gone as far as their bedrooms only to find their touches to be repulsive and familiar at the same time. Like someone was watching.

Her heart would race then, that damned traitorous thing. If she didn't need it to survive, to pump blood into the iron fists with which she beat down insubordination, she would have had a cardio-ectomy a long time ago. But no, her body liked to mock her.

Because when her blood began to pump fast through her limbs and straight back into that blasted organ, she felt... _warm_.

Like when _he _used to hold her. Before Marcus, before Tuscany, even before the stupid debutante ball.

She would twist until she laid on her stomach and the sheets itched the fading, three-inch scar on the left side of her waist. The thoughts would jumble into a big mess until the blood rushed to her head and she felt it would explode. She'd put a pillow over her head to cover the mess and, occasionally, she indulged herself in a muffled shriek.

All in all, life was good.

And her eyelids would flutter into the deep sleepy haze that beckoned her...

_"Doctor, what's wrong with her? What's going on?"__**so**__ sorry."_

... Mom?

"We need another 10 units of O neg. What's taking them so long?!"

Mom, who are these people? They're... touching me...

"Ma'am, we're going to have to ask you to step outside. Nurse Hill, could you-"

"Ma'am, we'll update you as soon as we have something-"

"Oh no you don't! That's my little girl in th- Cyrus, get off! I have to check on her! She doesn't like hospitals."

Mom? Don't go...

"We need that blood. NOW."

"BP's dropping, Jack. Your call."

"We can't do anything without the- where the hell- She's bleeding out-"

Mom? I don't feel so good...

Wait, who-?

"Don't worry, I won't let anything happen to you. I'm

And then she would wake up, her scar burning, his voice in her head, his presence all over her bed, under her skin.

She put a hand to her scalp and ran it through the mass of knots gathered from the pillowcases that Roman and her father refused to change to silk.

_What the hell?_

A/N: So... a little different from what I'm used to. I hope you like it all the same.


	2. You know your craft so well

From the Heart

Chapter 3

_Bewitched, bewitched. You know your craft so well._

"I'm so excited you're coming home, B! I haven't seen you in forever!"

She winced. Even months later, at the cusp of obtaining a high school diploma, her best friend could still squeal like no one else. Actually, it was much like the high-pitched whine S's golden retriever used to make before it met the blindspot of Chuck's limo. "Calm down, S. I'd like to retain my hearing until I'm at least 30."

"But this is so exciting! You can tell me _everything_!" One thing was for sure though. Blair was grateful for the way Serena could just brush off the most dramatic of things. What had happened between them was like something out of a soap opera, minus the aliens and the evil twins.

Perhaps she shouldn't jinx them.

"Relax, S. Besides, I'm not really _coming home _coming home. I'm just... visiting." New York didn't really feel like home anymore. At least, the last time she was there before the accident, drowning her sorrows at yet another upscale bar, it had been the loneliest place in the world. "It's just business, S. I'm only staying for the week."

She was set to debut her line in New York as a sort of tack-on to her mother's latest show. Everything was _finally_ coming together for her. There was no way she would mess this up. Just fly in, do her show, fly back out. Maybe a drink with Serena here or there, but that's it. She had to remind herself that this wasn't a social call.

Then again, who else would call on her to have a friendly chat? Nelly Yuki made it plain enough that no one liked her. Nate had dropped off the face of the planet to some intergalactic black hole named "Brooklyn" and Chuck... well, Chuck made it plenty clear what his priorities were.

Really, falling in love with a hooker. Who did he think he was, Richard Gere?

"Well, I wish you'd reconsider. You can get just as much done here as you would on that side of the Atlantic."

Her lips tugged a wry smile. That was simply not true. She never seemed to get anywhere in New York. Too many distractions. And the rushing. And the short attention span. "But the boys here, S! The boys!"

"Ooh la la! You definitely have something to report then- Oh hey, gotta go. Dan just came in to talk prom stuff. Can't wait to see you!" She heard the click but still pressed the phone to her ear.

Prom. That's right. Something else that she was going to miss. It hurt, a strange sort of ache in her belly, to know that the night she'd dreamt about for most of her childhood was going to be spent bent over another sketch desk, making phone calls for arrangements for her mother's show the day after. But this was her future now. No more dreams, no more fantasies, just a fabulous reality that she was going to mold with her own hands.

She just had to get through one week. That's all.

"All packed and ready to go, kitten? Early flight tomorrow." Her father was the same as he always was. After teacher-gate, she had almost been frightened to follow him to Paris. She supposed that seeing her in a hospital made him feel a bit of remorse, because she remembered being in that white room, being peppered by butterfly kisses while he apologized.

He could not have said yes any faster when she asked if she could go live with him. For him, it had been a second chance too, to make things right, to take care of the daughter he never saw very often, but adored all the same.

"Now are you sure you don't want me to accompany you? I really can take a few days off of work, you know. I always have time for you."

"It's fine, daddy. I know you have that huge case and Roman and I will probably spend all our time working and yelling at models anyway. Plus, didn't you always say you wanted us to bond?" Truth was, she and Roman got along fine. He had the industry experience that she sorely needed and was more than happy to help her with the business aspects. The little details that couldn't be God-given.

"Well, have a good night's sleep then. You have a long day ahead of you." He kissed her on the forehead and left with a little wave before closing the door. A long day ahead of her.

He had no idea.

***

Sleep was a teasing little bitch.

It dragged his eyelids down only to leave him staring into the darkness. The light imprint spots danced and he tried to make shapes out of them.

Fingers.

He felt thin, long fingers combing their way through his chest hair and a heavy head resting on his chest. His heart thumped to throw her off. It knew she didn't belong there.

"There's money in the second drawer on your right. Take a cab. Don't forget to tip the doorman on your way out."

The corporeal, clueless bitch just curled into him further and his stomach lurched at the feel of her stick thin leg bending like a crane who can't understand English when he was virtually telling her to get the hell out. "But Chuck..." Her breathless voice was quite possibly the most annoying thing he'd ever heard.

Or maybe that was the guilt talking.

He sighed. This routine was becoming increasingly bothersome. "We're done here."

She left with a huff, which was more than could be said of her dignity. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, even as she swiped enough 'cab money' to get to freakin' Pennsylvania. No matter. Chuck was no stranger to paying for sex.

Shame though, she wasn't even that good. He mused on what an unsuccessful call girl she would have made. Sure, she was pretty enough, but once he reeled her in, all he wanted to do was throw her back in the sea. She wasn't shiny like Elle, who, in retrospect, really wasn't anything special and she most certainly wasn't _her_.

Perhaps now he could get some sleep. He would need it, after the day he'd had. Lily's idea of a family dinner didn't exactly bode well. It wasn't World War III. No, it was worse. People kept giving him those looks. Those oh-look-at-the-poor-boy-who-let-the-girl-get-away-so-now-he-replaces-his-remorse-with-meaningless-sex looks. Sure, if that was the explanation they wanted to give, he had no complaints. He had tunnel vision now. It's all about Number One. Getting involved with other people only got them hurt. Not just the teen-movie emotional crap. He meant physically. Sooner or later, they always ended up on a hospital bed. His parents, the one person he would ever _ever_ in a million years call his girlfriend...

Talk about a track record.

But it wasn't even just the looks. It was the walking-on-eggshells conversation that made him roll his eyes and swallow down his quips and complaints with another swish of scotch. So _she_ was coming back. Did they expect him to burst into tears at the mere sound of her name? Even if it hadn't been months, he was Chuck Bass, in case they had forgotten.

He could even say it, he bet. It started as an exhale and with the next rise and fall of his chest, he uttered her name. "Blair."

She was coming home. He always knew she would, or, rather, he always hoped she would. How could she not? She'd taken a part of him with her when she left. Eventually, he figured she'd get sick of running and when she let go, the taut tension that kept them apart would snap them back together. That part of him in her held them together still. It had to.

They'll see.

***

There was a piece of paper stuck to the side of her face when she woke up. And of course, she managed to drool on the concept design for the Spring collection of next year. Great.

She looked around her. Pencils were scattered on the floor, her phone luckily landed on the carpet. Cat stared at her from where she perched in the middle of her bed, a face too wary to be all feline. Now that she's up, there's no way she was going to go back to sleep, so she picked everything up off the floor and dressed comfortably for the flight.

Her actions kept her mind off of that dream that played in the background like a forgotten television. Always right in the corner of her eye, too soft and blurry to hear anything more than a faint buzz.

But there was always confusion. Always voices and strangers. Always fear.

And then _he_ would be in the middle of it all.

What was going on?

Just then, her phone buzzed from the carpet and she took a quick glance at the LCD screen.

1 text message.

_Carter Baizen: Heard u'r coming back. Can't wait 2 c u._

She hit reply and typed out a quickie.

_Wish i could say the same 4 u._


	3. I looked in your eyes

From the Heart

Chapter 3

_Before I knew what I was doing, I looked in your eyes...._

Her back slammed against his dresser and she felt the little brass handles dig into the skin exposed by her backless dress, leaving angry red marks quickly soothed by his smooth, wandering hands. The man had fantastic hands, really. It was a beautiful contrast: the rough, almost caveman way he gripped her thighs and raised her off the ground against the tender kneading and caressing of his fingertips. The blue from the moon lit his face, still handsome if not contorted with sensation, and it's all familiar.

There went her peaceful, inconsequential week.

Beads of sweat gathered at his temples as he pushed into her and she, in turn, was slick for him. He was warm under her hands, the white cotton button down almost transparent from her perspiring grip on his shoulders and his lips on her pulse point burned her up, each little scrape of his teeth likened to the scratch of a match against the box.

Sparks. Sparks. Sparks.

And she spread the flame in the way her back rubbed up and down against the wooden drawers. He was relentless and his body worked the way it rarely did. All the grueling manual labor that he abstained from during the day behind his large mahogany desk came back tenfold in the way his body crashed into hers. His arms, normally reserved for swiveling scotch and signing contracts, held her between himself and the hard surface behind her and his back, usually slouched into the soft embrace of his Italian leather desk chair, worked every muscle and tendon in a wave like motion, the sweat gleaning in the light. Still, he was dark compared to her pale, pale legs wrapped around his waist.

She always fancied the idea of someone's heartbeat matching hers as their bodies joined. There was something so romantic about the two little organs working at the same pace towards Nirvana, but now the two of them were working so erratically that all she could hear was the blood pounding in her ears. Still, as she snaked her tiny hand under the shirt on his chest, she was content at the way her skin seemed to meld with his.

It felt divine.

Because of all this...action, she supposed, it wasn't until later, as she stared at the ceiling, a heavy arm draped across her midriff, her skin dried and cooled from the night air, that she wondered how she managed to fall back into Chuck Bass' bed.

_Earlier that day…_

In order to conquer oneself, one must know oneself.

Long ago, Blair Waldorf had come to terms with the fact that she was incredibly shallow and decided that she could live with that. She liked shiny things, beautiful things. And Chuck, slimeball though he was, had always been beautiful. The cut of his figure could never be called sharp, but his features were intense and attention-demanding. She had always found it difficult to look away from him, especially when he was constantly looking at her from whichever corner he dwelled.

This time, she found it damned near impossible.

Surely, he was hunting her because he was everywhere. Well, she hadn't exactly seen him, but she could practically feel him seeping through her skin. From the moment she landed in JFK, Chuck Bass was even more inescapable than he had been in France, in the back of her mind.

She shrugged off the feeling – after all, it was ridiculous that he felt anything for her at all. Ever. He made it plenty clear that he had been fascinated by her, but quickly grew bored. He even tried the whole boyfriend thing for a week before ditching her for a poor man's Serena of an interior designer. This reassured her, made it easier for her to focus on work, and the taxi took her straight to Chez Waldorf-Rose.

Cyrus greeted her with open arms, as usual, and her mother looked as thin as ever. It seemed as though Manhattan prospered even long after she was gone. Undoubtedly, Serena made a fitting queen, a kind ruler who granted her subjects with blinding smiles and the pleasure of her company. All those things that she couldn't do because after all, as Serena had pointed out, betrayal was in her nature and it seemed like everyone else was in on the secret as well.

Of course, afterwards the blonde apologized. It was infuriating how beautiful she was even when her face was red with tears and her hand wiped at her nose. Blair had twisted her face, disgusted, when Serena sat on the hospital bed and tried to take her hand in her dirty, snot-covered ones.

It was so like Serena to shoulder the blame for everything and apologize like she had been the one behind the wheel, like she was the one with her foot on the pedal, gunning down Park Avenue, hoping to make it before the light turned red.

The actual driver, of course, didn't make it and neither did Blair, who had been crossing right when the little man indicated she could go. Vaguely, she could remember it hurt.

And the lights. Red and blue dancing behind her eyelids.

When she came to, even with her best friend's apologies and her parents' pleas, she decided to leave. She spent the next month convincing herself that her decision had nothing to do with the very notable absence during those days at the hospital that no one dared mention.

Now she was back and still, no one dared to say his name in her presence. It was good to know she still had some control over these people. Surely, it was something scientific, something about conditioning or developmental imprints. Whatever it was, Blair was thankful that her name was still one to be feared.

She was very nearly accosted when she left her mother's shop to meet up with Serena for dinner and there she was again, the little girl who couldn't stop staring at him. Except now, she watched openly, not out of the corner of her eye because she saw through any delusions of a future that Nate represented. Her breath stopped as she anticipated his next move and when he opened the door behind him, it was only then that she realized that her Manolo Blahniks had taken her straight to the Palace rather than Tribeca Star, where the girls were supposed to meet.

Even as she passed him, her head turned, unable to tear her eyes away from his. He had that look on his face, that I-know-something-you-don't look, and this particular secret seemed big. She watched his hand let go of the door and follow her in and suddenly, she felt the urge to reach out and catch it between her own small, inadequate hands.

_What was that matter with her?_ It was as though every last hair felt the pull toward him. She forced herself to remember the prostitute that Carter had told her about, to remember all the times when she put her still fragile heart in his hands and all the times he disappointed her.

Conversation was important, of course, and communication was the key to any healthy relationship, whether it be friendship or love.

But now Blair and Chuck were neither of those things. And neither of them ever had the delusion that they could be considered "healthy."

It was only natural for them to skip the main course and head straight for dessert. Rough, angry, hurtful dessert that left her body worse for wear. Chuck was a strange craving to satisfy. She could go months without him and yet, as soon as he stood a few feet away from her, she couldn't get enough.

This was going to complicate things.


	4. Got me by surprise

From the Heart

Chapter 4

_That brand of woo that you've been brew-in' took me by surprise._

He let her go because he knew that she would be back soon enough. Some might call him arrogant, but they didn't know what he knew. But since he did, since he felt that very pull that led her across the ocean back to him, he was content to lie back and listen while the chilled early morning air rolled off his chest.

In his mind's eye, he could see the way the smooth skin of her back glowed in the dim blue light peeking through the center gap of his heavy, dark curtains. His cream colored sheets clutched to her front just as her insecurities and, shockingly enough, modesty settle in. Chocolate curls crawled down her back, mussed with little hairs deviating from the pack so that her edges became fuzzy and soft with light.

She must have looked divine.

But he dared not open his eyes. Doing so would be an acknowledgement that the magic from last night was over, and he wanted to hang onto it a little longer. He had waited months for that wordless reunion, it was only fair to bank on it as much as possible. He was a businessman, after all.

Magic.

When did he start talking like that?

These things didn't work backwards did it? A part of her couldn't have flowed into him like...

But then again, this sort of romantic ideal is so very Blair that he felt her seeping into his bones.

It was too much - the theories, the thoughts - so he resigned himself to just listening to her. Her breath was soft, but quickened and the blankets rustled just so as she crept out of bed. Her feet shuffled on the carpet as she walked around, collecting the articles of clothing scattered about the room, hanging off of lamps and strewn on the floor.

He heard the zipper and imagined her hand reaching behind her beautifully arched back and pulling upward. He could just imagine the tiny freckle she had in the middle of her back disappearing as the silk zipped shut. Then, he heard the snap of elastic and knew she'd put on her underwear. Did she notice the bruise she'd left on her hip? The bruise that he caught and caressed while he perused her slumbering body?

She gathered her purse, the clacking noise of her Chanel compact and lipstick banging together was a sound he'd recognized since the seventh grade.

She was clumsy with her shoes, a loud clunk sounded as it fell sideways.

Then the noises stopped, and amidst the cool of morning, he felt her heated gaze on him as she stood at the end of the bed. His head lolled to the side, his arm extended to the side pillow where her head laid not ten minutes ago and his chest bore a smudged red mark of her lipstick. His skin puckered up in goosebumps as she placed a hand on the bed beside him and slowly crawled up his body, not quite touching him but dipped the mattress slightly with her uneven weight distribution. The silk of her dress hung loose around her frame and slid against his skin.

Her face was close, her breath fanned his eyelashes and her heart a few mere inches away from his own and he was so tempted to reach a hand behind her head and pull her lips to his. He felt her swallow, then the lightest of butterfly kisses on his chin. She sprung back off the bed and out the door.

He exhaled, threw the back of his hand against his forehead and opened his eyes. He was waking from a dream.

Now he had his work cut out for him.

***

Her heart pounded painfully against her ribcage and raced its rhythm with the way her stilettos pounded into the thin carpet of the Palace Hotel. She clutched her purse until her knuckles turned white and her nails left little crescent indents in the soft leather. With each step she took, a nerve struck close to her nose and her tear ducts began to water.

When she looked at him just minutes earlier, lying peacefully in bed, all the good in him all over his face, she had felt this... _pull_. A cruel longing the likes of which she had never imagined, not even in her mental cinema when she used to imagine her epic love stories with Nate.

She wanted so badly to believe that this was genuine movie magic. That her love for him was so strong and pure that her body couldn't stand to move away from him. But it had to be something more.

There was something in the way he held her. His hands felt different somehow, his touches lighter and his kisses softer to the point of reverence. Then there was the way he press his warm palm into the long scar on her waist, light as it was he knew exactly where it marred her flesh, in the dark, without looking. He had traced his index finger up and down its length before pressing her entire back against his front with a palm on her abdomen. Then he kissed her on her bare shoulder.

He was acting in the exact way she always hoped he would, which meant that something must have gone terribly, terribly wrong. As much as she wanted to say she wouldn't let it affect her, she conceded. Being honest with herself was going to keep things from building up inside, her shrink had said.

She felt almost detached as she watched her round red nails fly across the tiny keypad on her phone.

To: Serena

From: Blair

5:04 AM

Msg: We need 2 talk. Meet me Modern 4 dinner.

She was surprised when the elevator opened to her penthouse and she spotted the huge arrangement sitting at her center table. How had she missed that all day?

Absentmindedly, she set her purse down on the wooden surface before reaching out to touch a soft white pedal. She rubbed the pads of her index finger and her thumb together and felt the moisture spread a thin, cool thin on her skin. _It was fresh_.

She found an elegant cream colored, gold edged card tucked in towards the middle where the flower stalks blossomed out in different directions and she froze.

_My bed is cold._

_Miss you already._

_-C_

_P.S. Welcome home_


End file.
